


Mourning Never Comes

by regionals



Category: Breaking Bad
Genre: Drabble, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 20:13:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23293018
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/regionals/pseuds/regionals
Summary: The first thing you do in Alaska, outside of getting a place to stay, is find an NA group. It's a decision you make, your next step, in figuring out how to exist, how to just be a person again.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 27





	Mourning Never Comes

**Author's Note:**

> a lil sumn i wrote when el camino came out but never posted

The first thing you do in Alaska, outside of getting a place to stay, is find an NA group. It's a decision you make, your next _step,_ in figuring out how to exist, how to just be a person again.

Your counselor looks younger than you do and rocks a mullet. He's a peculiar guy but he has the same sort of level headedness and empathetic way of speaking as the last one did. He talks about the same stuff, about acceptance, and maybe there's a part of you that wants to pick a fight, but you're not supposed to be _Jesse Pinkman_ anymore.

You don't talk much in these meetings. You don't do much beyond introducing yourself as _Wesley, but uh, really, I prefer Wes,_ and maybe you let a few things slip loose here and there, but no one seems to pressure you into talking (not that anyone did the last time either) which is more than fine with you.

Less talking means a smaller chance of fucking this up.

You suppose if you wanted to be _really_ smart about this, you'd forgo Narcotics Anonymous altogether, but you need _something._

Catharsis. A routine.

Something other than pacing around the small house you're renting waiting for cops to come knocking on your door.

*

The few weeks after Mr. White's rescue mission, or whatever the fuck that was, you're running on autopilot. You don't have time to think about anything deeper than what's happening in the moment, and what had been happening in the moment was getting the _fuck_ out of New Mexico.

It's when you're in Alaska with out a thing in the fucking world to do that things get worse.

The NA meetings help. You speak in vague terms, and you come up with ways of explaining certain things without giving away too much information or anything identifiable. You explain that you had this _bond_ with a dealer, and you know the way you explain it probably makes everyone think you're gay, but you explain that bond, say that it was a ride-or-die type of deal in the _real_ way and not the fake trying to work someone over way, at least for you. 

For him — everything for _him_ was always some sort of move. Maybe in some capacity Mr. White cared for you, but you know now he only kept you around because you were naive and loyal to a fault.

The _what if_ 's aren't productive and you're well aware of that, but sometimes you can't help but to wonder what things would be like if your loyalty was placed in the hands of Mike, at least more so than Mr. White, before it was too late. 

You have to cut your train of thought off whenever it circles back around to Jane or Andrea or Brock. You think about the three of them more than you think you should. The guilt and the grief — it's almost palpable. You could practically grab fists full of it.

*

Mornings are hard.

Sometimes you wake up and you know you’re in Alaska. Those mornings are the best. You feel _peaceful_ on those mornings.

Other times, you wake up, and for a few minutes, the stucco on your ceiling is replaced with a metal grate and a tarp. This doesn’t always immediately freak you out, but as soon as you start waking up and the grate is replaced with stucco, it hits you. On those mornings, you find that sitting outside, smoking cigarettes, drinking coffee, and letting the sun hit your face, letting things be simple at least for a few minutes, brings you the most peace.

There’s a few mornings, too, where you wake up and you’re expecting to roll over to see Jane or Andrea lying next to you, and maybe you can function on those days, but there’s always a melancholic cloud that seems to hang in the air around you.

*

You can feel hands in your hair. Pulling too hard. Enough to hurt, to pull hair out of the follicles. 

You can't see a pizza without thinking of Todd telling you that you deserve a reward for being so _good,_ without thinking of their cruel faces laughing and calling you a faggot because Todd doesn't know how to keep his cock in his pants.

The only comfort you're able to find comes in the form of vague mentions during NA, and in the form of memories; how it felt to strangle Todd until he quit struggling while Mr. White just stood there and watched like a fucking sack.


End file.
